I posted not too long ago about quitting my job to be a stay-at-home mom. I confessed that this caused me anxiety for a few reasons, including all the financial struggles that will come and the sacrifices we will have to make to allow me to stay home.
Now, under most circumstances, I would not be specific about our finances in such a public way, but I want to go into a little bit of detail here, just so I can show you all how amazingly God has provided for our family. I don't boast in myself, or my husband, or my former job, or his current job, or our money, or our lack of money--I boast in Jesus Christ, who has blessed us abundantly, both for His own glory and because, despite our failings and selfishness and greed, He loves us abundantly.
When I left my job, I left behind about $4000 a month. I was the primary breadwinner in our family. Because of my paycheck, we were able to save up a bit--until I became severely ill with hyperemesis last year and unexpectedly could not work for 10 months. We had huge expenses and only a fraction of our usual income. In a year with hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, it is amazing that we were not crippled by debt. (Let me just say here, I am so freaking thankful for health insurance. It was incredible to get bills in the mail weekly which read, "Total due: $14,680.00. Patient owes: $0.00.")
But by the end of the year, our savings were depleted and our debt came to $19,890.
Tragically, while I was still in the hospital after giving birth to our son, my husband's dearly loved grandmother died. It was heartbreaking to experience such a great loss after our son's birth, knowing that our beautiful Grandmom would never meet Arlo. (She would have adored him, and I know it would have been more than mutual.) When Arlo was about 2 months old, we received a piece of certified mail, and opened it to find a check. To say it was unexpected is a gross understatement. Grandmom had left us $20,000. (Though this is a considerable amount, you should know that this is only a small example of the generosity that exuded from this beautiful, smart, and encouraging woman, every day of her life.)
As I mentioned earlier, our debt was only about one hundred dollars shy of $20,000. Her gift wiped out all of our debt (except our house) in one day.
We see this as a gift from God. He used Jamie's faithful Grandmom in many, many ways throughout her exceptional life to touch so many lives, and we praised God that He was still using her to bless us and others after she had gone to live with Him. We believe that she would be overjoyed to know that her gift is the reason I was able to stay home with Arlo.
Though our debt was wiped out, we knew we still had a deficit of about $200-400 every month without my job. We talked about selling our house, selling a car, selling our kidneys (just kidding :) ). As of January 1st, the logical thing seemed to be for me to return to work. What would we do to cover that gap every month?
Still not knowing if we could financially support my staying at home, I quit my job. It was scary. But it was only scary because I'm stupid and don't really trust our trustworthy Lord. God had shown me in just the past year that He is bigger than $20,000, bigger than hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills, bigger than a potentially fatal illness; and yet, I doubted that He could come up with a couple hundred dollars a month for us. (Yeah, like I said, stupid.)
I told Jamie that I wanted to have the faith Jesus spoke of to Thomas after He was resurrected. In John 20, we read about how Thomas saw Jesus after Jesus had died, and Thomas did not believe that it was really Him. The poor guy's been dubbed "Doubting Thomas" for centuries because of this account. If you ask me, we should all have "Doubting" before our names. I know I doubted that God could provide, even after a year of Him providing BIG TIME, in very tangible ways. And it was only a couple of weeks after He gifted us with twenty grand that I was questioning His ability to cover two hundred bucks! Anyway... back to Jesus. :) He told Thomas to put his finger into His flesh, to actually feel Him, to know that He was indeed alive again. Jesus said, "Stop doubting and believe!" (John 20:27). After Thomas confesses that Jesus is Lord and God, Jesus tells him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed" (v. 29). I told Jamie that I wanted that faith--to not see how God was going to provide, and yet to believe that He would. I prayed for that faith. We prayed for God's provision. We prayed for trust that He would cover our $200-400 monthly deficit.
It was only a couple of days later that God gave us $900 more each month.
I am truly overwhelmed by God's goodness and His blessings to us. But let me say, even if we still found ourselves in debt, with an increasing chasm between what we owed and what we made, I would still be able to say that God has blessed us beyond what we deserve. Because the chasm between our sinfulness and God's holiness was much, much more vast than a few hundred dollars, and He filled it once and for all through Jesus. Thank you, Lord.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Satan in the small stuff
My dear friend Sarah published a blog post today that I reallllllly needed to read. Sarah has been my sister in suffering this past year. While I was going through a terrible disease of pregnancy, she and her family were tried with their own slew of crazy and severe illnesses; but through it all, Sarah was a remarkable friend, always sympathizing with my weakness, offering healing words of truth and wisdom, and encouraging me to persevere. (Kind of reminds you of Jesus, doesn't it? Exactly.)
Sarah's latest post, "Do good with your suffering," spoke to me yet again--not as someone who has gone through this crazy, horrible illness, but as someone who is finding it hard to rejoice in the day-to-day struggles.
Counter-intuitively, I have been able to rejoice in the midst of great suffering and trials. This is only, only, only by God's grace. While I suffered with severe, nearly-fatal hyperemesis last year (you can read about it here), God gave me strength to praise him all the while. I remember being absolutely overwhelmed by the way others loved me during this time, most especially my husband, who was sacrificial, joyful, and unrelenting in his service to me--from cleaning the house, to taking me to doctor's appointments, to helping me bathe, to emptying the trash cans of my vomit--day in and day out, for months and months. Being surrounded by people who took care of me the way Jesus spoke of in Matthew 25:35-36 ("For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me"), I felt surrounded by love, enveloped by grace, and flooded by mercy. Even on the days when my sickness would just become too much, and I would weep all day for the pain I was in, God would still use my darkest hours to draw me close to Him.
It's a strange thing, then, that I would find my health restored, along with the blessing of a new baby, and yet finding myself in the day-to-day nearly unable to praise God.
There are a series of bestselling books called "God is in the Small Stuff" (including "God is in the Small Stuff, for Teens" and "100 Inspiring Readings from 'God is in the Small Stuff'"). These books, intended to showcase God's interest and appearance in every minute detail of our lives, have been called "a treasure of inspiration!" I guess it's ironic, then, that I usually only find Satan in the small stuff.
On most days, I find myself frustrated by the challenges of motherhood, angry over something my husband casually said or didn't say, resentful over relationships that don't look the same anymore, bored out of my mind with caring for a helpless infant, and exhausted from nights with choppy sleep. It's all the little things that get to me.
I guess in my desperation last year, I had to rely on God. He brought me to the bottom to get me to look up. And I did. He was all I had to cling to as my health slipped away. But now, in a time when I should remember and praise, all I seem to do is complain. Why is it that I can't seem to pray for God's deliverance unless there's something really bad I need to be delivered from? Why don't I rely on Him for my daily bread, and instead wait till I'm starving?
Sarah's reminder that I can choose joy shouldn't be saved for those really desperate times when tears are my only food. I need to remember that Jesus was tempted in every way as we are, and that includes boredom. That includes the messiness of everyday relationships. That includes being just generally beat down by and frustrated with life. I can look to God as I endure common troubles in my relationships and in the roles to which God has called me. He isn't just the God of Big Redemption (though He definitely is that), but He's a God of redeeming every one of life's little frustrations.
God, help me to remember you in the small stuff.
Sarah's latest post, "Do good with your suffering," spoke to me yet again--not as someone who has gone through this crazy, horrible illness, but as someone who is finding it hard to rejoice in the day-to-day struggles.
Counter-intuitively, I have been able to rejoice in the midst of great suffering and trials. This is only, only, only by God's grace. While I suffered with severe, nearly-fatal hyperemesis last year (you can read about it here), God gave me strength to praise him all the while. I remember being absolutely overwhelmed by the way others loved me during this time, most especially my husband, who was sacrificial, joyful, and unrelenting in his service to me--from cleaning the house, to taking me to doctor's appointments, to helping me bathe, to emptying the trash cans of my vomit--day in and day out, for months and months. Being surrounded by people who took care of me the way Jesus spoke of in Matthew 25:35-36 ("For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me"), I felt surrounded by love, enveloped by grace, and flooded by mercy. Even on the days when my sickness would just become too much, and I would weep all day for the pain I was in, God would still use my darkest hours to draw me close to Him.
It's a strange thing, then, that I would find my health restored, along with the blessing of a new baby, and yet finding myself in the day-to-day nearly unable to praise God.
There are a series of bestselling books called "God is in the Small Stuff" (including "God is in the Small Stuff, for Teens" and "100 Inspiring Readings from 'God is in the Small Stuff'"). These books, intended to showcase God's interest and appearance in every minute detail of our lives, have been called "a treasure of inspiration!" I guess it's ironic, then, that I usually only find Satan in the small stuff.
On most days, I find myself frustrated by the challenges of motherhood, angry over something my husband casually said or didn't say, resentful over relationships that don't look the same anymore, bored out of my mind with caring for a helpless infant, and exhausted from nights with choppy sleep. It's all the little things that get to me.
I guess in my desperation last year, I had to rely on God. He brought me to the bottom to get me to look up. And I did. He was all I had to cling to as my health slipped away. But now, in a time when I should remember and praise, all I seem to do is complain. Why is it that I can't seem to pray for God's deliverance unless there's something really bad I need to be delivered from? Why don't I rely on Him for my daily bread, and instead wait till I'm starving?
Sarah's reminder that I can choose joy shouldn't be saved for those really desperate times when tears are my only food. I need to remember that Jesus was tempted in every way as we are, and that includes boredom. That includes the messiness of everyday relationships. That includes being just generally beat down by and frustrated with life. I can look to God as I endure common troubles in my relationships and in the roles to which God has called me. He isn't just the God of Big Redemption (though He definitely is that), but He's a God of redeeming every one of life's little frustrations.
God, help me to remember you in the small stuff.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
The worst best day
Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the worst best day of my life.
On January 7, 2011, my son Arlo was conceived. I didn't know it until about a month later, and I didn't plan on getting pregnant when I did. But I was elated when I found out. (Okay, after the shock wore off, I was elated. Completely overjoyed and utterly scared. Still am. :) )
This day, 1/7/11, had the potential to just be one of the best days of my life, nothing more. Except for what followed.
By the end of February, I had been diagnosed with severe hyperemesis ("hi-per-EM-uh-sis"), a disease of pregnancy which would persist until my placenta was delivered on September 24th of that year.
My hyperemesis was one of the worst cases ever. It only affects 0.5-2% of women anyway, and of those cases, it usually subsides by the 18th-20th week of pregnancy, or about halfway to full term. Few cases go to 25 weeks. Even fewer to 30. Full-term (40 week) cases are extremely rare. But such was mine. The severity of my disease was worse than any doctor in my OB practice had ever seen or heard of, and worse than any that their regional and national colleagues had also seen or heard of. (They asked around.)
[Listen: If you have a weak stomach, stop reading here. Seriously.]
Hyperemesis is basically extreme morning sickness. But it's so much more, and so much worse. My experience was horrible. On the very best days (which were rare), I vomited 10-20 times; on the worst days (which were more frequent), I vomited 70-80 times; and on the average day (of which there were so, so many), I vomited 20-50 times. (I estimate that I threw up around 5,000 times during my pregnancy.) From March 2nd to September 25th, I was unable to eat or drink anything. The smallest sip of water, the tiniest nugget of ice, the most miniscule bite of a cracker, would launch me into a vomiting fit which lasted an hour. I threw up blood almost every day. I threw up bile. I threw up my stomach lining. I threw up nothing, having painful dry heaves for hours on end. My neck hurt constantly from bending over a toilet or trash can for hours, days, weeks, months on end. My stomach was always in pain from the retching. The constant nausea was dizzying, gross, and overwhelming.
Within 5 weeks of being diagnosed with hyperemesis, I had lost close to 40 lbs. and was hospitalized for 11 days. There are medications given to hyperemesis patients, anti-nausea meds like Zofran and Phenergen, steroids, and gut meds like Reglan, Protonix, etc. Not only did these meds not help me at all, they each actually made me sicker. Every dose I was given would cause me to vomit more, and would give me stomach pains, lower back pains, liver problems, kidney problems, something. I was told the situation was grave. My doctors discussed a feeding tube and hospitalization for the next 25-30 weeks, until I delivered. After much consultation between physicians of various specialties, they decided to put me on IV nutrition, called TPN ("total parenteral nutrition"). These were gallon-sized bags of various vitamins, minerals, calories, and fats that kept me alive. I used a syringe to add liquid multivitamins and folic acid to the TPN bags just before administering. Through my PICC line (a central line IV which entered in my bicep and emptied out just above my heart, allowing my medicine and nutrition to be pumped quickly through my body), I daily ran one bag of TPN over the course of 12 hours, along with a bag of fluids which I ran through my IV for 10 hours a day. I began this regimen in late March, and for the remainder of my pregnancy, there were only 2 hours of the day when I wasn't toting around an IV bag.
I was sent home in April, but a nurse visited me once a week to change my IV dressing, draw my blood, and take my vitals. A local hospital lab would examine my blood and determine what I was missing--i.e. was my sodium low?, did I need more calories?, were my liver enzymes elevated?--and a team of clinical pharmacists would craft my bags of nutrition for the next week accordingly. I received a delivery of my bags and my IV medicines on Friday each week, and they would take up nearly our entire refrigerator space. (Luckily, there was no need to keep much food in the fridge, since I wasn't eating.) Caring for my IV (keeping it clean, dry, uncrimped) was a hassle, but a necessity. Since the PICC line emptied into the chamber above my heart, I was told that any infection could be deadly.
I was also told that TPN shouldn't be administered to a patient for more than a few weeks, because of the risk to the patient's liver. I was on it for about 30 weeks. My liver enzymes, in turn, became highly elevated. My doctor said if they didn't go down, my liver could be seriously harmed, as well as my son's, since his tiny, still-forming liver would have to try to work hard for the both of us. It could kill him. But they couldn't take me off the TPN, because there was no other way for me to live. Instead, they removed all the lipids from my nutrition, which caused two of the three elevated liver enzymes to decrease. However, without the added fats, I stopped gaining back the weight I lost. I wound up weighing less at full-term than I did when I got pregnant.
As part of the procedure for monitoring high-risk pregnancy patients, I would get a call from the clinical pharmacist, June, once or twice a week to ask me how I was feeling, how much I was throwing up, and if I was able to keep down any food/liquids. The answers were always the same: Horrible. All day. Nope. I mentioned each time I talked to June that I felt absolutely exhausted. As the weeks went on, I would emphasize the extent of my exhaustion: I physically couldn't get off the couch. I awoke, moved from my bed to our living room sofa, and wouldn't get up until it was time to go to bed again. I would get winded walking the 10 steps to the bathroom. Getting dressed made me so tired I got dizzy. I couldn't take a 3-minute bath without needing a 30-minute nap afterward. I talked to June about 25 times over the course of my illness, always mentioning the exhaustion, and she didn't seem overly concerned. She said it was understandable, both because of my throwing up all day and not eating or drinking, and also because pregnancy just makes a woman tired. I didn't question it because it made sense it me.
Unfortunately, it was more than that. As my due date (October 1st) neared, I began begging my doctor to take my baby early (once I reached full-term at 37 weeks) to put me out of my suffering. (As I became closer to full term, the disease got much more severe.) She said she would consider inducing at 37 weeks if my baby's lungs were developed. We had this conversation on a Tuesday, and we scheduled an amniocentesis for the following Monday (which would be 37 weeks and 3 days). She said to pack a hospital bag; if it came back that my son's lungs were developed, she would induce that day. This same day, I had my bloodwork taken by my nurse, as usual. On Thursday, as always, I received a call from the clinical pharmacist to go over my blood results and talk about how I was feeling. June, who usually called me, was out of the office for a while, so I received a call from Jodi. When I told Jodi (as I had been telling June weekly) how incredibly exhausted I was and how it was getting worse, she asked, "How have your hemoglobin levels been?" I told her that I didn't know because no one had ever discussed that with me. She did some clicking on her computer, then abruptly told me that she needed to call my doctor and would call me back soon.
What I didn't realize, and what all my doctors, nurses, and pharmacists to this point had failed to consider, was that iron cannot be added to TPN. And one needs iron to maintain normal hemoglobin levels. Because I was not able to eat or drink, nor was I getting any iron supplements for nearly 8 months, my hemoglobin levels had dropped drastically and I was considered critically anemic. Each week, my bloodwork showed my dropping levels, but they were unfortunately (and nearly fatally) overlooked. When Jodi (thank God for Jodi!) called me back, she explained that normal hemoglobin levels are 12 (on the low end) to 15, blood transfusions are normally given to patients whose levels reach 7.7, and I was currently at 6.2. She said that I would soon be receiving a call from my doctor, but that I should not expect an amnio on Monday. Even if the baby's lungs were developed, if I was induced or went into labor with my levels so low, I would likely die from blood loss. (A woman typically loses 2-3 levels in vaginal labor, 4 or more during a c-section.) If they hadn't discovered my anemia, my hemoglobin would likely have kept dropping and dropping; with the doctors not knowing I needed blood, during delivery I would lose enough to kill me.
I was immediately sent to a hematologist, who was horrified (the look on his face was, honestly, sheer terror) when he looked at my chart. He had examined my blood and informed me that my bone marrow was not doing its job of making new blood cells, and that my current blood cells were very unhealthy. He compared them to raisins because of how shriveled they were. He wanted to give me a blood transfusion then and there, but because of objections from my OB (who determined that a transfusion would be too risky for the baby), he agreed to start with IV iron infusions. He gave me my first one about half an hour later, explaining that it may bump up my hemoglobin a few tenths of a point, and--not to get my hopes up, but--there is a small chance that the iron could trigger my body to do what it is supposed to do naturally, and tell my bone marrow to start making healthy blood cells. If the former situation, we would then do a blood transfusion; if the latter situation, we might see my levels raise a full point, and would determine then if I would need blood or we would continue with infusing more iron.
Two days after that first iron infusion, I went back to the hematologist to get my blood tested. Much to everyone's complete and utter surprise, my hemoglobin levels had jumped drastically to 9.2! The doctor expressed his total amazement and shock, as well as being very pleased with how I had taken to the iron. (I consider this moment to be the first thing going right with my pregnancy.) I received several more infusions over the next 2 weeks, and by the time I delivered, my levels were at 10--safe enough that if I lost 3 or 4 points, I could live.
I was induced a week later, on a Friday night. The day/night I labored and delivered Arlo (September 23-24) were the worst of my life. I was sicker than ever, vomiting all night and day, and in excruciating pain, despite all the pain meds. The medication they gave me caused hallucinations, and I could not figure out what was going on. I would hallucinate conversations with the doctor that never happened, while actual conversations that occurred I don't remember or I thought I was dreaming. I don't remember the doctor breaking my water, but she did; and I remember the pain of contractions that followed. Unfortunately, though my labor was progressing, every time I had a contraction, Arlo's heart rate would drastically drop. He would be in danger if I labored any longer, so after 22 hours of labor, I was asked if I would consider a c-section. I wish they had offered that 22 hours earlier, honestly. I was in horrible pain (the anesthesia was not enough, and I could feel part of the cut into my abdomen, on my right side) and throwing up as they delivered my son, vomiting blood and bile on myself and the doctor who stood by my head during the delivery; and when Arlo came out, I was so sick and shaking from pain and anguish, that I could not even look at him. They wheeled Arlo away before I really got to see him. I was still sick and angry that I was still sick.
Then, a few minutes later, the doctor delivered my placenta, and my nausea and vomiting stopped. Just like that.
Arlo, praise God, was extremely healthy. As the doctors explained, he had been getting perfect nutrition, in a way, because of my illness--he got all of the vitamins, minerals, and fats directly through the TPN, with no "extras" (like chemicals, preservatives, and just the other unhealthy junk you find in most food), and he also got all my built-up stores of the stuff he needed. Although pregnancy severely depleted me of everything I needed, so much so that my nails and hair were falling out, Arlo was born with a full head of gorgeous, silky black hair and hard, long fingernails. Even though he was a week early, he was still nearly 9 lbs. When my doctor pulled him out, her first exclamation was, "Wow! Now that is a TPN baby!"
If you've made it this far in my story, well, first, thanks for reading. Second, you deserve a reward. :) Here's the precious gift I was given at the end of my horrible season of suffering, and your little treat after reading about all that nasty puking. :)
See? Wasn't that worth it? :)
The Lord was so very merciful to return my ability to eat fairly quickly. I started out very scared to even attempt eating, but once my nausea subsided, hunger soon won out. I began with clear liquids, then full liquids (like ice cream and creamy soups), then soft solids, and finally, full solids. Everything tasted absolutely amazing. My first meal of soft solids was breakfast in the hospital a few days after Arlo was delivered. I was served scrambled eggs and a biscuit. I told my husband that it tasted like movie theater popcorn to me. :)
It was about 8 or 9 days after I gave birth that my cute little baby gave me selective memory loss. The sickness I had endured no longer felt real. I often compare it to feeling like I read about this terrible, life-threatening case of hyperemesis in a textbook, rather than experiencing it. I record my suffering here for posterity's sake, but also to look back on in case I ever think I might want to get pregnant again. (Dear Future Kelsey reading this: You don't. Seriously. Stop. I know he's cute, but he needs a mommy, and it's highly possible another pregnancy will kill you.)
So, January 7th, 2011... I remember you with fondness for the fun night you were, with disdain for the suffering that followed, and with thankfulness for the incredible gift you finally provided. And thank you so much, my Lord and God, for preserving my life, my son's life, and for blessing me so richly through my suffering. You are good.
On January 7, 2011, my son Arlo was conceived. I didn't know it until about a month later, and I didn't plan on getting pregnant when I did. But I was elated when I found out. (Okay, after the shock wore off, I was elated. Completely overjoyed and utterly scared. Still am. :) )
This day, 1/7/11, had the potential to just be one of the best days of my life, nothing more. Except for what followed.
By the end of February, I had been diagnosed with severe hyperemesis ("hi-per-EM-uh-sis"), a disease of pregnancy which would persist until my placenta was delivered on September 24th of that year.
My hyperemesis was one of the worst cases ever. It only affects 0.5-2% of women anyway, and of those cases, it usually subsides by the 18th-20th week of pregnancy, or about halfway to full term. Few cases go to 25 weeks. Even fewer to 30. Full-term (40 week) cases are extremely rare. But such was mine. The severity of my disease was worse than any doctor in my OB practice had ever seen or heard of, and worse than any that their regional and national colleagues had also seen or heard of. (They asked around.)
[Listen: If you have a weak stomach, stop reading here. Seriously.]
Hyperemesis is basically extreme morning sickness. But it's so much more, and so much worse. My experience was horrible. On the very best days (which were rare), I vomited 10-20 times; on the worst days (which were more frequent), I vomited 70-80 times; and on the average day (of which there were so, so many), I vomited 20-50 times. (I estimate that I threw up around 5,000 times during my pregnancy.) From March 2nd to September 25th, I was unable to eat or drink anything. The smallest sip of water, the tiniest nugget of ice, the most miniscule bite of a cracker, would launch me into a vomiting fit which lasted an hour. I threw up blood almost every day. I threw up bile. I threw up my stomach lining. I threw up nothing, having painful dry heaves for hours on end. My neck hurt constantly from bending over a toilet or trash can for hours, days, weeks, months on end. My stomach was always in pain from the retching. The constant nausea was dizzying, gross, and overwhelming.
Within 5 weeks of being diagnosed with hyperemesis, I had lost close to 40 lbs. and was hospitalized for 11 days. There are medications given to hyperemesis patients, anti-nausea meds like Zofran and Phenergen, steroids, and gut meds like Reglan, Protonix, etc. Not only did these meds not help me at all, they each actually made me sicker. Every dose I was given would cause me to vomit more, and would give me stomach pains, lower back pains, liver problems, kidney problems, something. I was told the situation was grave. My doctors discussed a feeding tube and hospitalization for the next 25-30 weeks, until I delivered. After much consultation between physicians of various specialties, they decided to put me on IV nutrition, called TPN ("total parenteral nutrition"). These were gallon-sized bags of various vitamins, minerals, calories, and fats that kept me alive. I used a syringe to add liquid multivitamins and folic acid to the TPN bags just before administering. Through my PICC line (a central line IV which entered in my bicep and emptied out just above my heart, allowing my medicine and nutrition to be pumped quickly through my body), I daily ran one bag of TPN over the course of 12 hours, along with a bag of fluids which I ran through my IV for 10 hours a day. I began this regimen in late March, and for the remainder of my pregnancy, there were only 2 hours of the day when I wasn't toting around an IV bag.
I was sent home in April, but a nurse visited me once a week to change my IV dressing, draw my blood, and take my vitals. A local hospital lab would examine my blood and determine what I was missing--i.e. was my sodium low?, did I need more calories?, were my liver enzymes elevated?--and a team of clinical pharmacists would craft my bags of nutrition for the next week accordingly. I received a delivery of my bags and my IV medicines on Friday each week, and they would take up nearly our entire refrigerator space. (Luckily, there was no need to keep much food in the fridge, since I wasn't eating.) Caring for my IV (keeping it clean, dry, uncrimped) was a hassle, but a necessity. Since the PICC line emptied into the chamber above my heart, I was told that any infection could be deadly.
I was also told that TPN shouldn't be administered to a patient for more than a few weeks, because of the risk to the patient's liver. I was on it for about 30 weeks. My liver enzymes, in turn, became highly elevated. My doctor said if they didn't go down, my liver could be seriously harmed, as well as my son's, since his tiny, still-forming liver would have to try to work hard for the both of us. It could kill him. But they couldn't take me off the TPN, because there was no other way for me to live. Instead, they removed all the lipids from my nutrition, which caused two of the three elevated liver enzymes to decrease. However, without the added fats, I stopped gaining back the weight I lost. I wound up weighing less at full-term than I did when I got pregnant.
As part of the procedure for monitoring high-risk pregnancy patients, I would get a call from the clinical pharmacist, June, once or twice a week to ask me how I was feeling, how much I was throwing up, and if I was able to keep down any food/liquids. The answers were always the same: Horrible. All day. Nope. I mentioned each time I talked to June that I felt absolutely exhausted. As the weeks went on, I would emphasize the extent of my exhaustion: I physically couldn't get off the couch. I awoke, moved from my bed to our living room sofa, and wouldn't get up until it was time to go to bed again. I would get winded walking the 10 steps to the bathroom. Getting dressed made me so tired I got dizzy. I couldn't take a 3-minute bath without needing a 30-minute nap afterward. I talked to June about 25 times over the course of my illness, always mentioning the exhaustion, and she didn't seem overly concerned. She said it was understandable, both because of my throwing up all day and not eating or drinking, and also because pregnancy just makes a woman tired. I didn't question it because it made sense it me.
Unfortunately, it was more than that. As my due date (October 1st) neared, I began begging my doctor to take my baby early (once I reached full-term at 37 weeks) to put me out of my suffering. (As I became closer to full term, the disease got much more severe.) She said she would consider inducing at 37 weeks if my baby's lungs were developed. We had this conversation on a Tuesday, and we scheduled an amniocentesis for the following Monday (which would be 37 weeks and 3 days). She said to pack a hospital bag; if it came back that my son's lungs were developed, she would induce that day. This same day, I had my bloodwork taken by my nurse, as usual. On Thursday, as always, I received a call from the clinical pharmacist to go over my blood results and talk about how I was feeling. June, who usually called me, was out of the office for a while, so I received a call from Jodi. When I told Jodi (as I had been telling June weekly) how incredibly exhausted I was and how it was getting worse, she asked, "How have your hemoglobin levels been?" I told her that I didn't know because no one had ever discussed that with me. She did some clicking on her computer, then abruptly told me that she needed to call my doctor and would call me back soon.
What I didn't realize, and what all my doctors, nurses, and pharmacists to this point had failed to consider, was that iron cannot be added to TPN. And one needs iron to maintain normal hemoglobin levels. Because I was not able to eat or drink, nor was I getting any iron supplements for nearly 8 months, my hemoglobin levels had dropped drastically and I was considered critically anemic. Each week, my bloodwork showed my dropping levels, but they were unfortunately (and nearly fatally) overlooked. When Jodi (thank God for Jodi!) called me back, she explained that normal hemoglobin levels are 12 (on the low end) to 15, blood transfusions are normally given to patients whose levels reach 7.7, and I was currently at 6.2. She said that I would soon be receiving a call from my doctor, but that I should not expect an amnio on Monday. Even if the baby's lungs were developed, if I was induced or went into labor with my levels so low, I would likely die from blood loss. (A woman typically loses 2-3 levels in vaginal labor, 4 or more during a c-section.) If they hadn't discovered my anemia, my hemoglobin would likely have kept dropping and dropping; with the doctors not knowing I needed blood, during delivery I would lose enough to kill me.
I was immediately sent to a hematologist, who was horrified (the look on his face was, honestly, sheer terror) when he looked at my chart. He had examined my blood and informed me that my bone marrow was not doing its job of making new blood cells, and that my current blood cells were very unhealthy. He compared them to raisins because of how shriveled they were. He wanted to give me a blood transfusion then and there, but because of objections from my OB (who determined that a transfusion would be too risky for the baby), he agreed to start with IV iron infusions. He gave me my first one about half an hour later, explaining that it may bump up my hemoglobin a few tenths of a point, and--not to get my hopes up, but--there is a small chance that the iron could trigger my body to do what it is supposed to do naturally, and tell my bone marrow to start making healthy blood cells. If the former situation, we would then do a blood transfusion; if the latter situation, we might see my levels raise a full point, and would determine then if I would need blood or we would continue with infusing more iron.
Two days after that first iron infusion, I went back to the hematologist to get my blood tested. Much to everyone's complete and utter surprise, my hemoglobin levels had jumped drastically to 9.2! The doctor expressed his total amazement and shock, as well as being very pleased with how I had taken to the iron. (I consider this moment to be the first thing going right with my pregnancy.) I received several more infusions over the next 2 weeks, and by the time I delivered, my levels were at 10--safe enough that if I lost 3 or 4 points, I could live.
I was induced a week later, on a Friday night. The day/night I labored and delivered Arlo (September 23-24) were the worst of my life. I was sicker than ever, vomiting all night and day, and in excruciating pain, despite all the pain meds. The medication they gave me caused hallucinations, and I could not figure out what was going on. I would hallucinate conversations with the doctor that never happened, while actual conversations that occurred I don't remember or I thought I was dreaming. I don't remember the doctor breaking my water, but she did; and I remember the pain of contractions that followed. Unfortunately, though my labor was progressing, every time I had a contraction, Arlo's heart rate would drastically drop. He would be in danger if I labored any longer, so after 22 hours of labor, I was asked if I would consider a c-section. I wish they had offered that 22 hours earlier, honestly. I was in horrible pain (the anesthesia was not enough, and I could feel part of the cut into my abdomen, on my right side) and throwing up as they delivered my son, vomiting blood and bile on myself and the doctor who stood by my head during the delivery; and when Arlo came out, I was so sick and shaking from pain and anguish, that I could not even look at him. They wheeled Arlo away before I really got to see him. I was still sick and angry that I was still sick.
Then, a few minutes later, the doctor delivered my placenta, and my nausea and vomiting stopped. Just like that.
Arlo, praise God, was extremely healthy. As the doctors explained, he had been getting perfect nutrition, in a way, because of my illness--he got all of the vitamins, minerals, and fats directly through the TPN, with no "extras" (like chemicals, preservatives, and just the other unhealthy junk you find in most food), and he also got all my built-up stores of the stuff he needed. Although pregnancy severely depleted me of everything I needed, so much so that my nails and hair were falling out, Arlo was born with a full head of gorgeous, silky black hair and hard, long fingernails. Even though he was a week early, he was still nearly 9 lbs. When my doctor pulled him out, her first exclamation was, "Wow! Now that is a TPN baby!"
If you've made it this far in my story, well, first, thanks for reading. Second, you deserve a reward. :) Here's the precious gift I was given at the end of my horrible season of suffering, and your little treat after reading about all that nasty puking. :)
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| Arlo Quinlan |
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| ...at 3 days... |
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| ...at 3 weeks... |
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| ...and at 3 months. |
The Lord was so very merciful to return my ability to eat fairly quickly. I started out very scared to even attempt eating, but once my nausea subsided, hunger soon won out. I began with clear liquids, then full liquids (like ice cream and creamy soups), then soft solids, and finally, full solids. Everything tasted absolutely amazing. My first meal of soft solids was breakfast in the hospital a few days after Arlo was delivered. I was served scrambled eggs and a biscuit. I told my husband that it tasted like movie theater popcorn to me. :)
It was about 8 or 9 days after I gave birth that my cute little baby gave me selective memory loss. The sickness I had endured no longer felt real. I often compare it to feeling like I read about this terrible, life-threatening case of hyperemesis in a textbook, rather than experiencing it. I record my suffering here for posterity's sake, but also to look back on in case I ever think I might want to get pregnant again. (Dear Future Kelsey reading this: You don't. Seriously. Stop. I know he's cute, but he needs a mommy, and it's highly possible another pregnancy will kill you.)
So, January 7th, 2011... I remember you with fondness for the fun night you were, with disdain for the suffering that followed, and with thankfulness for the incredible gift you finally provided. And thank you so much, my Lord and God, for preserving my life, my son's life, and for blessing me so richly through my suffering. You are good.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Happy Birthday, Mom! (and sorry, Dad)
Today is my mom's birthday. I love my mom. She is such a loving and giving woman, and she is the best Nana to my son.
But every year for her birthday, she asks for the same thing:
And I oblige. Because, well, like I said, I love my mom, and I want to make her happy. I cannot fathom how in the world this would make someone happy... but it does. She gets so excited, and thanks me that I picked out a flannel nightgown which covers her ankles and wrists and collarbone, and swears she'll never take it off, never ever ever!
Anyway. I just wanted to take this opportunity to say, I'm sorry, Dad.
And, of course, Happy Birthday, Mommy!!! I love you.
But every year for her birthday, she asks for the same thing:
And I oblige. Because, well, like I said, I love my mom, and I want to make her happy. I cannot fathom how in the world this would make someone happy... but it does. She gets so excited, and thanks me that I picked out a flannel nightgown which covers her ankles and wrists and collarbone, and swears she'll never take it off, never ever ever!
Anyway. I just wanted to take this opportunity to say, I'm sorry, Dad.
And, of course, Happy Birthday, Mommy!!! I love you.
Friday, January 6, 2012
I quit?
I quit my corporate job today.
quit [kwit] - verb: to stop, cease, discontinue...
I've worked in an office for nine years. I've loved it. I love talking to people all day. I love interaction with colleagues around the world and customers on the phone. I will not be doing this anymore. I will be staying at home with my son, all day, every day.
... to leave...
I'm leaving the people I've seen every weekday for years. I have a lot invested in these people. I like them. I love them. I care about them. I'm leaving a place that has given me opportunities to grow, learn, excel, use my skills and knowledge, and advance my career. I'm embarking on a daily journey that I'm not sure I can handle. I don't know that I'll like being a full-time mom. I'm leaving a job where I'm successful for one where I'm sure I'll fail.
... to give up...
I am giving up a steady paycheck, annual bonuses, a few weeks of paid vacation, financial security. I'm giving up my ability to go out to nice dinners every week, to splurge on new clothes and records and makeup and whatever else I want, to say "yes" every time a friend asks me to a $10 movie. Instead, I'm accepting a new role where I come last, where my needs and my wants are not what's most important.
Can I really do this? Can I give up so many benefits, so much security? Can I leave behind my freedom, all these things and people I enjoy so much? Can I sacrifice all the things I want to do for a life of full-time motherhood?
resign [ree-sahyn] - verb: to yield...
As it so happened, I didn't follow my senses. Or my bank account. I chose to follow my heart, to yield to its yearnings.
It isn't that I gave up all the things I love; it's that I gave in to something else.
A little boy named Arlo.
...to submit without resistance...
I felt the pulling of a new calling, to relinquish my corporate career and adopt a new path. I felt the Lord asking me to sacrifice for my family, not by leaving every day (which for many is a huge sacrifice, and something that they have no choice in, but for me would, in a way, be easy), but by staying home. And boy, is it a sacrifice for me. And for our finances.
But what always follows sincere sacrifice? From the beginning of time, God has shown us that, where there is a pleasing sacrifice, He will follow it with blessings. Whether it's incense or a fatted calf or the ultimate sacrifice of His own Son, He blesses those who lay their offerings and their lives at His feet and say "Not my will, but Yours."
And so I offer up the paychecks, the freedom, the benefits and the indulgences. I submit, and I wait.
quit [kwit] - verb: to stop, cease, discontinue...
I've worked in an office for nine years. I've loved it. I love talking to people all day. I love interaction with colleagues around the world and customers on the phone. I will not be doing this anymore. I will be staying at home with my son, all day, every day.
... to leave...
I'm leaving the people I've seen every weekday for years. I have a lot invested in these people. I like them. I love them. I care about them. I'm leaving a place that has given me opportunities to grow, learn, excel, use my skills and knowledge, and advance my career. I'm embarking on a daily journey that I'm not sure I can handle. I don't know that I'll like being a full-time mom. I'm leaving a job where I'm successful for one where I'm sure I'll fail.
... to give up...
I am giving up a steady paycheck, annual bonuses, a few weeks of paid vacation, financial security. I'm giving up my ability to go out to nice dinners every week, to splurge on new clothes and records and makeup and whatever else I want, to say "yes" every time a friend asks me to a $10 movie. Instead, I'm accepting a new role where I come last, where my needs and my wants are not what's most important.
Can I really do this? Can I give up so many benefits, so much security? Can I leave behind my freedom, all these things and people I enjoy so much? Can I sacrifice all the things I want to do for a life of full-time motherhood?
resign [ree-sahyn] - verb: to yield...
As it so happened, I didn't follow my senses. Or my bank account. I chose to follow my heart, to yield to its yearnings.
It isn't that I gave up all the things I love; it's that I gave in to something else.
A little boy named Arlo.
...to submit without resistance...
I felt the pulling of a new calling, to relinquish my corporate career and adopt a new path. I felt the Lord asking me to sacrifice for my family, not by leaving every day (which for many is a huge sacrifice, and something that they have no choice in, but for me would, in a way, be easy), but by staying home. And boy, is it a sacrifice for me. And for our finances.
But what always follows sincere sacrifice? From the beginning of time, God has shown us that, where there is a pleasing sacrifice, He will follow it with blessings. Whether it's incense or a fatted calf or the ultimate sacrifice of His own Son, He blesses those who lay their offerings and their lives at His feet and say "Not my will, but Yours."
And so I offer up the paychecks, the freedom, the benefits and the indulgences. I submit, and I wait.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
What's in a name?
I chose the name for this blog for a few reasons:
1) "Hi-fi," short for "high fidelity," is a term implying superior clarity of sound. Giving this title to a piece of sound equipment, for instance, indicates that the object provides minimal amounts of distortion and is capable of high quality output. Though I'm not sure I can promise that my blog posts will be of impressive quality :), the idea that hi-fi is clear and sharp resonates with me. I don't want to put ideas out here that are muddled or cloudy; though I adore shoegazer and post-punk music with all its fuzzy noise, when blogging about my life, I want to put away the distortion pedal, and to be transparent and honest.
2) The "Pastor's Wife" part... well, I am a pastor's wife. My amazing, talented husband is a worship pastor at our church here in the best city in the world, Louisville, Kentucky. I'm still figuring out this role. I'm at turns uncomfortable with it, rebellious against it, accepting of it, and thankful for it. I'm sure many of my posts will reflect my inner confusion at how to support my husband and be a model of grace (not perfection) to our family and our church.
3) The sub-title, "Living in stereo," is a reference, again, to transparency, but also to my need to live in community. If you know anything about records, you'll know that they used to be recorded in monophonic ("mono") sound--basically, there's only one channel, one microphone, etc.--but now, most are recorded in stereophonic ("stereo") sound--two or more channels, microphones, etc. Mono recordings have a certain retro-cool sound, but when applied to life, the idea of being a solo microphone is kind of depressing. I believe we were meant to live in rich, transparent community (of "two or more"). Though it may seem monophonic, this blogging thing, because I am the only one writing, I intend it to be a stereophonic experience, with me putting my thoughts out there and you, dear reader, responding with your own thoughts and ideas (either in the comments or in your own head, doesn't matter to me).
4) Finally, the "Hi-Fi" title of the blog is simply a reference to my love for music, as well as my complete obsession with the Nick Hornby novel (and film version of) "High Fidelity."
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